Losing It
by Poppy471
Summary: Betrayed by the others, Allison is as alone as ever, with only her art to give her life meaning,. But she is given another chance. Can she risk her carefully constructed fortress of solitude?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Flipping the record one more time, Allison curls on the bed in a fetal position. She should have known Claire and Andy wouldn't change. It was as Claire had said, neither she nor Andy had recognized her existence. Neither of them had the strength to carry on without someone like Bender. And Bender was gone, expelled over the fallen ceiling incident. Even Brian had failed to keep his promise Monday at lunch. After being rejected by the other two, she hadn't been surprised when she saw Brian's eyes stop on her and then snap away. Instead of returning her wave, he sat down at the geek table, avoiding her eye.

She tries to push away a scene that keeps replaying in her mind. The way Andy looked at her. A flash of recognition, a soft sad look for a second, then a false smile for the jocks, turning his back on her. He had pledged loyalty, but it meant nothing to him on Monday morning.

The record player needle lifts automatically as it comes to the end of the Cure album. She doesn't have the will to get up, flip the record, and start it again. In the silence she finds her tears are gone, as dried as the desert of her heart.

It was all too good to be true, it always is. Nothing good stays. Brick by brick, she begins erecting her wall again.

* * *

Summer finds Allison sitting alone again, at her usual table in Shermer Tech's cafeteria. At least here her invisibility is impersonal. All the other students are years older than she and one lonely high schooler doesn't even register. They are not ignoring her, they don't even see her.

She rises and slings her purse across her chest. Trash disposed of on her way out the door, she heads to the community college's art department. She's early as usual and enters the scent of saw dust and turpentine with something that approaches happiness. She erects her easel and painting, then arrays the tools from her oversized tackle box. Everything else in her life's a mess of disorganization, but her paints and brushes are meticulously arranged. The self portrait is a study in blue, blue background, deep blue shadows, a blue tinge to her pale face and white chemise. It's an underwater wash of blue making her look far away and untouchable.

The other students trickle in and set up their equipment with the sound of chatting and the clatter of easels being unfolded. Her teacher comes to stand behind her and instead of guiding her toward proper technique as she does with the other students, she asks Allison if she had a chance to look at the Picasso book she lent her. They discuss the painter's blue period, so different from her own blue. His subjects were sad and gaunt. Her own painting shows her pale face and bushy hair in rounded shapes. Not sad but as though seen through glass, through water, through distance.

* * *

Canvas and equipment carefully stowed two hours later, Allison emerges from the air conditioned building and is blinded by hot sunlight. Shermer Tech is located on the edge of downtown, near her north Shermer neighborhood. As she rounds the corner of Ames Hall, she almost collides with someone. She looks up to mutter an apology and finds herself looking at John Bender's face. Her eyes start to slide past him, expecting to be ignored by this last member of the breakfast club. Instead, Bender smiles. A habitually sarcastic smile, but one that acknowledges her.

"Long time. You here to improve yourself or something?" He sounds like he's mocking Vernon's words, from detention. She notices his GED prep book, thick as a Chicago telephone book.

"Hah!" Her exclamation seems to satisfy him.

"Me too. Nose to the grindstone and all that. You heading this way?"

He turns to accompany her toward Maple Street.

"How's Queenie?"

"Claire's a bitch." She doesn't mean to shout this, but that's how it comes out.

"Same with me. She didn't want to be around a delinquent drop out. Andy ditch you too?"

She nods, looking down. Bender's voice is almost gentle when he says, "He's a dirt bag. You're better off without him, Al."

In a much cheerier tone he says, "Vernon finally got his wish. It was the fallen ceiling that put the last nail in my coffin." He sounds as though this pleases him. "I'm done sitting in detention every Saturday."

They are now enclosed by the shade of the old trees lining Maple Street.

"Where do you live? North Shermer? I figured you were another richie; I saw that Cadillac your parents drive." He seems content to carry the entire conversation without comment from her. "You keeping your hands to yourself? No more five finger discounts?"

That is a reference to their encounter in juvenile last year, when he was being processed for possession of marijuana and she for shoplifting. He looks at her as if she has spoken and says, "Yeah, takes more than that to cure me too. You gotta be careful with that knife though. Weapons are serious trouble."

She has been using his switch blade to open packages and boxes, as well as clicking it open and closed just to hear the sound, to feel it leap in her hand. It's in her bag right now. It goes everywhere with her. As much as the rejection of the others hurts, she still day dreams about that one day when she had friends. The knife is proof that it happened.

Now here is Bender acting as though detention was yesterday and they're still friends. A friend. That's a novel idea, an idea too good to be true. Detention was too good to be true and this is too. Bender never sticks around and she has no illusions about that. He appears, stirs things up, then disappears. That's what John Bender does. It's nothing personal.

"This your street?" They have reached Ledgewood Place. "I'll see you around, Al."

She squeaks a tiny "Bye."

* * *

At the end of the housing division's cul-de-sac she sees her mother's Cadillac in the driveway, but her father's Mercedes is gone. She troops up the manicured sidewalk to the immaculate green-painted door hung with a summer wreath. Her mother buys these wreaths from some catalog, a new one every season. Allison looked at the picture in the catalog once and noted the price. Having $50 hanging on your front door feels stupid. That would set her up in art supplies for a whole semester. Her parents are always so grudging with money for her supplies. She saves her allowance to augment the small amount they give her every school term, but it's never enough.

Her parents don't begrudge spending money on other things. Every few months her mother raids her closet, takes away all the gray and black clothes and insists Allison go shopping. She then forces Allison to try on pastel clothes. They come home with an entire new wardrobe, a wardrobe Claire would kill for. Allison obediently puts it away in her closet. Then she retrieves her emergency monochrome clothes from the hiding place under her bed, brings all the pastel clothes to the homeless shelter and buys replacement garments at the thrift store.

When she comes in, she can tell it's going to be bad. The liquor cabinet in the living room is open and when she enters the kitchen she sees a highball glass filled with an amber liquid.

"So pretty and you wear those clothes."

Allison cringes as her mother starts in on her.

"When I was your age, I went to dances and wore pink. Not this ugly black."

"I've got homework, mother."

"And always having homework. A girl doesn't need good grades. That's for boys who have careers. You just need to be well-bred."

"I'm going to my room."

"Don't you leave until I am done with you, missy."

Allison pulls into herself.

"I went into your room and it's a mess. How will you ever take care of a husband and household if you can't take care of your own bedroom? Not that you'll ever get married wearing all that black. And I told you, no eyeliner. You look like a raccoon. I spend so much money trying to make you pretty and all you do is mope around. And never a boyfriend. As for your 'art' I give you classes and supplies, and what do you do? Make these depressing blue things..."

She stands woodenly while her mother goes on, right back to the old subject of making a debut in good society. She had inadvertently destroyed that scheme of her mother's by beating up a boy in dancing class when she was 12. Her family didn't have enough money and influence to hush that one up and she had been banned from the social club that produced debutants and their suitors. The mention of the beaten up boy somehow makes her feel better this time. She thinks Bender would have approved of her kicking the stuffing out of the little shit. He was cruel to animals, plus he had tried to pinch her while they were dancing.

She's finally excused. She slips into her room and closes the door. After divesting herself of her purse, she gets out her large sketchbook, the one bound in leather. She can lose herself in her drawings. She turns to an unfinished one. It's a country scene, serene rolling plains of grass with an old white clapboard church in the distance, the spire bright in the sun. She doesn't feel serene. She opens to a blank page, picks up her pencil, prepares to savage the fresh sheet with her pain, her anger and finds she can't. Only one thing seems to want to come out of her pencil. She flips back to last spring. This drawing is of five people in a circle, lounging on the floor. In the corner, in tiny letters, it says "The Breakfast Club."

She slams the book shut, re-slings her purse, and heads out to her favorite place. Behind the last building in the development runs a stream. Allison makes her way down the slight slope and hunkers down on a smooth rock. The silver sound of the stream soothes her. She can feel the fine hairs on the back of her neck relaxing and imagines the pearly nerve endings re-knitting themselves. As her mind unkinks and her stress slips away, her thoughts empty out. She searches for a favorite fairytale… She can be a CIA agent in World War II, a camel herder in Mongolia, a Russian submarine navigator... She can be anything, but she keeps coming back to Bender.

* * *

The next morning Allison rounds up the last yogurt and a browning banana for her breakfast after determining that is all the food in the house, aside from some stale cornflakes and exotic condiments in the fridge door. Her parents eat out so much they forget she needs food. With no lunch available she'll have to go to the college cafeteria for lunch. That's okay because her class starts at one anyway. Until she needs to leave for the college, she returns to a sketch for a painting she wants to start. She works carefully, giving shape to her vision of a rain-darkened street under the elevated train in downtown Chicago. She intends to discuss the logistics of making this sketch come to life on canvas with her teacher today.

At school, preoccupied with thoughts of her painting, she chooses Jello, a ham sandwich, fries and a carton of milk from the cafeteria line. She drowns her sandwich in mustard and dips her fries in the Jello. As she is enjoying her odd combination, she becomes aware of someone standing next to her table. It's Bender.

"Hey Al, you got room for me?" Bender seats himself and says, "What are you doing to those french fries?"

"Eating them."

"With Jello? Al, you're one strange girl." This doesn't sound like an insult the way he says it, but her defenses are prickling.

She blurts, "Why are you here?"

"My math class starts at one." He squirts some ketchup on his plate, ignoring her angry tone.

"Why are you sitting here?" she persists.

"You want me to stand?"

"No." She settles back, anger giving way to curiosity. He still hasn't answered her question, but instead of continuing her interrogation, she simply watches him. He doesn't seem to be making fun of her. Taking big bites of his burger, his eyes drift to her open sketchbook.

"Under the El?" he asks.

She nods.

"That's right by the record store. You'd like it, heavy metal all the way." He continues looking at the sketch. "That's a bad neighborhood. You need to go there again, tell me. I'll take you."

"I'll be fine." She says this defiantly, but it's automatic. She did feel a bit nervous when she wandered over into that area and would have liked someone with her.

"Just let me know."

She continues to watch him eat. She knows the intensity of her gaze can be disconcerting, but that doesn't stop her from inspecting him carefully. He has a slight shadow of stubble and his hair is still long. There's an earring in his left ear that looks like a diamond. But it can't be a real diamond. She knows a bit about jewelry. Her mother's collection is extensive and includes some pieces she keeps in a safe deposit box. No way Bender could get a diamond that big. It must be cubic zirconium. He has on his fingerless gloves and the sleeves of his t-shirt are ripped off at the shoulder. The black shirt has some kind of pentagram and eagle design on it. He doesn't have a tattoo, but he looks like he should.

"You wanna take a picture?" She's unembarrassed by this question as his sarcastic tone excuses her from taking him seriously. The old Bender trick, sarcasm to deflect attention.

He pushes back his tray and glances at his watch, which is mounted on a wide black leather cuff.

"Gotta book. See you later." He walks off with his tray in one hand and his GED book in the other. She slowly gathers her own things and buses her tray.

That night at home, she doodles in her small sketch book while listening to the Smiths. Absorbed in the music, she isn't paying much attention to what her pencil is creating, until she recognizes the pentagram design from Bender's shirt. She slams the book closed and throws the pencil across the room. Thinking about Bender is not allowed. No hope, no desire for friendship, no kind feelings. No wanting to see him again.

* * *

But she does see him again. He joins her in the cafeteria again the next day.

"Al, what are you taking? A drawing class?"

"Painting." She says this abruptly, not really expecting ridicule but out of habit.

"I'm here for GED prep. Vernon actually did me a favor, kicking me out. I'll have my GED by the end of the summer, and I was going to be a senior next year, so I'll be a year ahead." He takes a few more bites of his sandwich. "I wasn't cut out for high school, all the bullshit and Obey this Obey that. They don't give a fuck here, as long as you come to class and try your best."

"High school sucks." This is the most detailed self expression she has dared so far.

"You like your painting class?" She nods. "Let me look at what you're working on sometime. I want to see what goes on in that head of yours."

* * *

Monday morning Allison wakes to the sound of birds. She stretches her toes and luxuriates in the clean sheets before heading for the shower. Something conventional pops into her mind, startling her. Scrambled eggs! There's just enough mustard to coat her eggs to her liking. Her morning passes quickly, trying to bring a little order to her room. She finds her favorite purple socks and adds them to the load of dirty laundry she's accumulating. Soon it's time to go if she wants to have lunch at the caf.

She chooses her favorite, Jello and french fries, along with barbeque chicken and a salad. Weaving her way through the crowded dining hall, she takes her usual seat by the window. Watching the door, she begins her lunch with gusto. As time goes on and no Bender, she slows down, lets her fork drop. At 12:45 she must give up and go to class. He has not come.

* * *

She's ashamed of her tears in the women's bathroom. He made no promises. She had no reason to expect him. So they ate lunch together twice. That meant nothing. Maybe he has something better to do with his time. Something other than sit with a social idiot like herself. She repairs her makeup and gets to class only a few minutes late.  
She has finished her self portrait and is now blocking out her new painting of the street under the El. But for the first time since she started this class, she doesn't want to work. She cleans her brushes and excuses herself, claiming a headache.

Once home she puts Psycho Candy on the turntable, sinks into the loud, monotonous guitar feedback and wishes she could escape being Allison Reynolds. Before Bender, before the breakfast club, she had lived entirely in her own world. She had been content there. That day in detention had awoken something in her. Now that she has something to lose, life hurts.

* * *

Tuesday morning Allison scours the kitchen looking for some kind of lunch. The pantry is empty again. Eating at the caf is her only choice. At noon, she forces herself up and on her way to the college. The cafeteria line choices seem unappealing so she just gets a yogurt. She walks right past Bender and he has to call her name to get her attention. When she turns back, he's wearing an uncomplicated look of pleasure. Pleasure to see her? She bangs her purse down out of habit, but can't help a tiny smile starting in response.

"Hey Al, how's it going? You have a good weekend?"

Her smile gets a little bigger and she deliberately tears the foil off the top of her yogurt.

"Mine sucked. I swear I will never smoke again. It felt like someone went at my lungs with a cheese grater. I was sick as a dog."

"Do you want your pickle?" She knows this is a non sequitur, but she can't find another way to express her happiness.

"Have at it. I'm done."

She forks up the pickle spear and dips it in her yogurt.

"You still working on that sketch, of the El?"

In a burst of bravery, she says, "I'm putting it on canvas."

"A painting?"

She nods.

"Cool. When are you going to let me see your stuff?"

"Now?" She doesn't know where all this courage is coming from.

After showing him the sketchy beginnings of her new piece and a life-size painting of two lilies in a vase, she shyly uncovers her self portrait. He looks from her face to the painting and back several times.

"It's you. It's like you are on the other side, looking into water."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two **

After Bender leaves for his math class, Jeanette, her teacher, has some surprising news for Allison. She's finagled an interview with a gallery owner. Allison has to bring her portfolio and she blesses her teacher for making professional slides of her self portrait in blue, and another one in blue, the vase of lilies. It means a half hour trip on the commuter train into the city and then more trains and buses to the gallery. She'll have to go tomorrow and wishes she could tell Bender.

She skips her painting class to get to the gallery. It takes over an hour altogether and she has a hard time maneuvering her large portfolio through the transit system, but she makes it. The gallery owner turns out to be a mild man named Stuart Johns, sporting a goatee and an argyle cardigan, who is not at all intimidating. He puts his chin in his hand as he pages through her sketches, watercolors and pastels. He softly says "Hmm," to himself several times. She has no idea what this means. Then he dims the lights to view her two slides. She sits bolt upright on the edge of the chair he'd offered her in his office. Her heart sinks as he clicks the slide carousel to display her painting of the lilies. She can see every flaw of conception and execution and cringes to think she might have presumed to imagine she might be good enough. But a strange feeling overtakes her when he clicks forward to her self portrait. It takes her a while, but she finally identifies the feeling as pride, pride and confidence.

He rises and turns the lights back on, removes her slides and returns them to her.

"Jeanette always has a good eye for promising students. Your self portrait is remarkable for a student so young. Indeed, for any student. Several of your pastels are intriguing. Well executed and original. I would be happy to show your work in my gallery. We should start hanging next week and open next weekend. Do you have prices in mind for the two paintings?"

"The self portrait is not for sale." She says this quickly.

"I thought as much. Consider the pricing of the lilies and the other items. Jeanette can help you. Allow me to explain the gallery's function on the monetary side."

He goes over a lot of details, but Allison barely takes in what he is saying. A showing. Not a student show. A showing in a Chicago gallery. Together they select four pastels and make arrangements for her to deliver the paintings next week.

* * *

Thursday at twelve Allison watches the door to the caf eagerly, waiting for Bender to enter. He does not fail her. In a few minutes he joins her.

"Hey, Al. You cut class yesterday?" He says this as if he approves of such an activity.

"No. I mean, yes. My teacher, she said to. I went to Chicago. He, the man, he said..." She is talking so fast she is making no sense. Eventually she conveys her news. She doesn't know how she feels. Sort of sick to her stomach but light and floaty.

"In Chicago? They want to sell your paintings in the city?"

"Yes."

Bender whoops loudly enough to attract attention from neighboring tables. Wallet chain jingling, he reaches over to clap her on the shoulder. He seems almost happier than she is. After he calms down a little, he interrogates her about the specifics. She gladly relates every detail of her meeting with the owner.

* * *

When she gets home, her mother is out shopping and her father is still at his law office. She orders pizza but can only eat one slice, her stomach alternately flip-flopping and tightening up. She rarely asks for help from her parents, she's figured out how to get by on her own. But she'll need a ride to Chicago to deliver her paintings. There's no way she could manage two paintings on the bus.

When her father finally gets home, she is in the living room looking at the Picasso book again, reading the text this time. She hurries to catch him in the foyer.

"Father." He doesn't hear her so she tries again. "Father, I need to talk to you."

He turns from hanging his suit jacket and regards her with a bare minimum of interest. He has delegated all care of Allison to her mother so she rarely approaches him.

"I need help transporting some paintings. I have a show in Chicago. Could you give me a ride?"

He has gone from looking bored to looking angry.

"No, I certainly will not. I thought your mother explained our feelings about your artistic dabblings. It is an appropriate pastime, in moderation, for a young woman from a good family, but no daughter of mine will peddle her wares like a fishmonger in some tatty gallery downtown."

She begins to open her mouth, but he says "No. I forbid it. That is that. Now go to your room, you are up past your bedtime." She hasn't had a bedtime in years, but she mechanically goes upstairs anyway.

Once her father has spoken, it is no use appealing to her mother. She can feel her soul crumpling up inside, as if it is having all the air inside extracted so that it buckles inward. She can't catch her breath, then finds herself sobbing. Late, after two in the morning, she falls into a troubled sleep.

* * *

She is up early, her misery having woken her. She can't stand the house so she throws on some clothes and grabs her purse. The morning is cool and the dew is still thick on the grass. The eastern sky is faintly glowing pink. She wanders out onto Maple Street, randomly turns north and continues trudging her way blindly along the cracked side walk. She walks father than she ever has, right through the northern heights and starts down into Milltown. Finally the smell of the paper mill penetrates her fog of misery. She looks up to see the mill smoke stacks far in the distance, white clouds billowing into the blue sky. The strong graceful lines of the smoke stacks rising from blocky buildings penetrate to her artist's brain. She sees a bus stop bench not far away and sits. Her sketch book is in her purse and she finds one pencil with an unbroken tip. Even in her utter misery, she feels herself opening up, her soul demanding expression, her eyes and fingers compelled to trace the strong straight lines of the mill and the soft billows of smoke.

That is how Bender finds her.

* * *

"C'mon, Al, we'll figure something out."

She has finally stopped crying.

"You don't understand, he said I couldn't do it. He forbid it." She's wringing her hands.

"That never stopped me before."

"But you're- you're Bender. You're not me."

"I could give you lessons, lessons on how to not give a rat's ass about what other people think or say."

She chokes out a sound between a sob and a laugh.

"Al, there is always a way to do things. Get your paintings in there and then worry about what your father will do later. He doesn't even need to know."

She wipes her face and looks at him with red rimmed eyes and pink nose.

"But how? I can't take them on the bus." Her flicker of hope subsides.

"Leave that to me. I think I can get a car. Next Thursday, you said?"

"Yes. I'm supposed to be there Thursday morning."

"We can do it. You just worry about keeping your dad in the dark."

She gives a cynical laugh. "I don't need to worry about that, he never pays attention to me."

"Your parents are assholes. Screw them. You're not going to feel guilty are you? Because they don't deserve the energy."

Bender walks her to Ledgewood, then continues on his way to Shermer Tech.

* * *

Wednesday, the eve of their smuggling operation, Bender walks Allison home, giving her a pep talk.

"I'll pick you up at Ledgewood and Maple, we'll grab your painting from the art department and then we'll be on our way. We'll get there in plenty of time."

"Where did you get this car?"

"A friend of a friend. Don't worry Al, it'll be smooth as silk, no problem."

She barely sleeps, dreaming uncomfortable things about cars and the lake. She wakes alert and edgy. But under Bender's tutelage a part of her has learned to relish this act of disobedience. Her mother won't wake until eleven or twelve and her father has already left for work. There is no one to see her setting off with the painting of the lilies securely in her grasp.

Bender's car is obvious, a rusting blue Impala from the seventies. Her painting fits in the back seat with plenty of room to spare. She slides into the front seat, returning Bender's smile with a tentative one of her own.

"Buckle up baby, we're about to take off."

The retrieval of the self portrait is swiftly taken care of, then they are on the interstate, heading for Chicago. It turns out parking is the real problem. Bender drives around the block a couple of times before double parking in front of the gallery so Allison can unload the paintings. Stuart greets her amid drop cloths and ladders, half the gallery ready for the show. Her own pastels, properly mounted, are already up. Bender comes in as Stuart is explaining where and how he will hang Allison's two paintings. Allison vaguely notices Bender drift away, looking at a couple of paintings. As they talk, she realizes Stuart is looking at Bender, who is now talking to a woman with asymmetrical pink hair. He's in his pentagram t-shirt again, with dark pants and his motorcycle boots. She wonders what Stuart makes of him. He looks like a hood.

Finally they are done and Allison collects Bender. He's stuffing a slip of paper into his pocket as they leave.

"Man, you art people are a trip. That lady in there wants to draw me with no clothes on." Allison steals a sideways glance at his firm biceps and defined collarbone. Her artist's eye sees he has the perfect physique for modeling. Then she is embarrassed to be thinking of Bender in the nude.

"And you should have seen what she had up there. A two headed naked woman with snake tongues." Bender holds the car door open for her. "What do you people have against clothes?"

"I like clothes," she says distractedly.

"And she wanted fifty bucks for the snake lady."

"I'm asking thirty for my flowers."

"No kidding? You can make that much?"

"Well, the gallery gets a percentage."

"Think of all the paint you can get with that!"

* * *

Bender drives her right up to her doorstep. They both forget maybe showing up in a 1972 Impala might not be the wisest thing to do. And indeed, it is not. When she enters the house, her mother pounces on her. Who was that man, where has she been, didn't she know her mother was worried? Allison scoffs (internally) about her mother being worried. She never worried about anything but how Allison's behavior and appearance might reflect on their family.

Allison ad-libs, saying Bender is a friend from school and they just went to the Art Institute as a class assignment.

"Allison Reynolds, I will not have you seen with a man like that. And you did not have my permission to go into Chicago." Then revealing her true concern, she blurts out, "And what will the neighbors think, seeing a car like that in front of our house?"

Allison plays the role of a contrite daughter who sees reason. She apologizes and swears it will never happen again. Somewhat mollified, her mother decides to not punish Allison.

"But if I see you in that car again, if I see you with that man one more time, your father will hear about it."

That's a pretty serious threat. Her father is not a lenient man, nor very understanding. The few times her mother brought things to his attention, it did not go well for Allison. He knew how to punish her effectively. Take away her art. She remembers one awful week without sketch books, charcoal, pastels, pencils, watercolors. Another time he threatened to destroy her sketch books. So she tip-toes around her father and tries to keep on her mother's good side.

Not that Allison has been in the habit of breaking rules and disobeying her parents. Well, except for the shoplifting. That had induced the art-free week. But other than that and the clothes, she is the essence of the dutiful daughter.

* * *

She has come to think of Bender as almost magical in his ability to solve problems. Now she has a big problem. The opening is Saturday night, at eight. How on earth can she get permission to go there?

Friday at lunch, Bender does not let her down. When he hears the problem, he is ready with a solution. Masquerade. He will masquerade as a nice young man. He will borrow some clothes and shoes, leave the Impala at the corner and pretend to walk her to the movies downtown. She'll be late getting home, but she will have achieved her goal and can face the music later.

Allison gapes at him. Could Bender possibly look like a nice young man?

"Sure, no problem. I'll take out my earring and slick back my hair. I got a friend who can lend me clothes. But mainly I need shoes. Can't wear my boots to meet the folks."

After class he walks her down Maple to Ledgewood, finalizing their plans and bolstering her courage.

"Okay, I'll see you at 6:30 tomorrow night," he says, and in parting he squeezes her shoulder.

* * *

Her mother, contrary to her fears, is delighted at the idea of Allison going on her first date. She fusses about her hair and tries to get Allison to borrow a dress.

"No, mom, we'll all be casual. It's just a movie and some pizza. I don't want to stick out."

This appeal works as her mother has a horror of being inappropriate and fully approves of Allison being just like the other girls. But that does start the idea in Allison's head. What does an artist wear to an opening? Her usual black frumpy clothes seem wrong. She has some Japanese combs she could use in her hair. Maybe she could get something a little nicer at the thrift store.

What she finds is a real score, a handkerchief hem skirt in black to go with a long sleeveless black sweater. When she is dressed, she discovers she has no idea how to use the Japanese combs. They keep falling out. For once she and her mother have a common goal and her mother has the expertise needed. Allison sits very still in front of her mother's vanity while her mother fusses and tuts, strategically placing bobby pins and weaving the combs in properly. The result, Allison has to admit, is wonderful. Her mother agrees. They both admire her elegantly upswept hair and the black lacquered combs. Back in her room, Allison considers her makeup, then decides to skip the black eyeliner and go for a more natural look. It seems to go with the combs better.

She finds she is quite nervous about the opening. What do you do at an opening? What if people want to talk to her? Isn't that the point? She's grateful Bender will be there with her. She seems able to borrow courage from him.

Her mother interprets Allison's nerves as anxiety about her date, which is all the better. Both women sit in the living room waiting Bender's arrival. He's exactly on time, dressed in a pair of dark trousers, a white dress shirt and well shined black shoes, with his long hair artfully slicked back to appear short and trim. No earring. He doesn't look like Bender until he gives her a lopsided smile and winks. It's suddenly a game, pretending to be a respectable couple. She introduces Bender as John (which seems strange) and her mother allows him to press her hand.

As he makes small talk, Allison bites her lip, hoping he won't go overboard in deferential respect, but he doesn't. Eventually he gets around to telling her mother where he intends to take Allison and promises to have her back by midnight. Once they are well away from the house, Allison can contain herself no longer and starts snorting with laughter.

"Hey, what's so funny? A guy can't dress up now and then?" He's putting his earring back in as they walk, then rolls up his sleeves.

"By the way, Miss Reynolds, you look lovely tonight." Allison finds this even funnier, the basket case and the criminal looking almost normal. He opens the car door for her, then rummages in the back seat and comes up with a black leather vest which makes him look more Bender-esque. He snaps his wallet chain on and dons his gloves. Much better.

"We got time to grab something to eat. You want to go to this Greek place I know?"

* * *

The Greek place turns out to be a tiny hole in the wall. The white stucco walls are hung with travel posters of the Greek islands. She gets calamari, Bender sticks with a burger and fries. Allison's nerves turn into hilarity over their masquerade.

"You must have said 'Yes ma'am' twelve times."

"Fat lot of help you were, sitting there with your mouth shut."

"I could see her saying to herself 'nice young man.' "

"I can be a nice young man!"

"Nice young man my foot, you devil. This was all your idea."

"And a good idea. Besides, it's nice to see you so fancy. You look good."

"You think so?" Now she is seriously nervous again. What if she is dressed all wrong?

"Definitely." He says this with great conviction.

* * *

They are early, which suits Allison, she won't have to make an entrance. It had seemed so important to be here tonight, but now she is quaking with anxiety. Stuart is cordial and directs them to the wine and cheese. Bender sets off around the room, looking at the different works. Allison sticks to him like a limpet. His presence is all that is keeping her from running away entirely.

The pink haired woman enters as they are looking at her snake woman. She has another nude woman with an elephant head, and a tiger-striped woman. She greets Bender enthusiastically and seems a bit disappointed when Allison is introduced. But she admires Allison's self portrait in a most flattering way. Bender has wandered off and the woman (her name is Patrice) asks "How can you not paint him? A live-in model like that would have me painting day and night."

"He's not-"

"Look, here's Clive. Clive, this is Allison Reynolds. Clive makes all the rounds but never buys anything." He's a scholarly sort, tweed and a pipe.

Alison does her best to smile and nod and look like she knows what they are talking about. When Clive moves along Patrice whispers "Clive is from The Back Beat. He'll be writing up the show."

Patrice seems to have adopted Allison after she learns this is her first show. When Patrice is not with her, Bender is, and when Bender is not, Stuart is. She is introduced to too many people to remember, and so many people have nice things to say. She is glad Jeanette had her read up on Picasso; she understands all the references they make.

Bender is irrepressible. He keeps muttering the most outrageous comments about the different paintings and people.

"Check that guy out, his toupee looks like it's going to crawl away."

The champagne Stuart poured for her seems to have relaxed her and she forgets her strong urge to run away. When the crowd thins and Patrice comes to say goodbye, they decide it is time to go. It is only ten o'clock, they have plenty of time to get home.

"Let's stop at the lake. I know a good spot on the way back."

Allison agrees. She's still buzzing from the second glass of champagne, and is enthusiastically detailing all of her encounters.

"So you had a good time?"

"Yes!"

They park and walk down an overgrown trail to a small fire ring made of stones and a huge log to sit upon.

"Patrice thinks you live with me," Allison says.

"And boy am I glad she does. It's the only thing that stopped her from dragging me off to model in the back room."

"You knew she thought that?"

"I sort of implied that was the case."

"You're awful!"

"Hey, a guy needs some kind of self defense. She had already thought up a jungle scene for me, giving me an eagle head or something."

Allison finally runs out of talk.

"We better go if you want to be back by midnight."

Bender gives her a hand when she stumbles a few times on the path. She's exhausted, but happier than she's been in her life. When they get to the corner of Maple and Ledgewood, Bender reverts to nice young man appearance, taking off his earring, vest, wallet and gloves. The porch light is on. He walks her right up to her doorstep.

"Thank you, Bender. You don't know what this means. This was the best night of my life."

"It was my pleasure." He looks like he means it. He gives her shoulder a squeeze and she unlocks the door and goes inside.


	3. Chapter 3

It is Clive at _The Back Beat_ that does it. Bender had said the important thing was to get her paintings up there and that she could deal with her father later. She'd thought she'd got off scott-free. A week after the opening, she comes home from art class to find her father's Mercedes in the driveway. He's never home in the afternoon.

She cautiously enters. She can hear them arguing in the kitchen, her father's voice raised.

"I found out she has disobeyed me by reading it in a newspaper. My client congratulated me on her art show when I expressly forbid it. That is what comes of all this molly coddling."

"You leave it all to me! I'm the one who does everything. You weren't even here to meet her first boyfriend. You don't like the way I do things, do them yourself!"

A sick smacking sound cuts off her complaint.

"I told you to handle this and you didn't. I work hard so you can enjoy this life and I ask you to do one thing and you fail."

"Raising a daughter all by yourself is not just one little thing, like you'd assign to an intern. I don't work for you! I am your wife and the mother of your daughter!"

Allison is glued to the spot. Her mother is standing up against him. He hit her and she is doing it anyway. He hit her. Her brain has trouble processing this fact.

"She will be punished. No more of this art nonsense. I will see to it myself since you are so unreliable."

Allison slowly backs out of the front door, turns, runs for the stream.

* * *

Crumpled on her rock, the sound of the water eventually cuts through her shock. She will be punished. How? He hit her mother. But he has always taken away her art when he wanted to really punish her. He can't. He can't do that.

She has to find Bender.

* * *

Finding Bender is more difficult than she'd expected. She looks in the Shermer phone book and finds no Benders. Then she remembers that morning when he found her at the bus stop in Milltown; he must live there. She ends up going to the library to find a Milltown phone book. Yes, there is one Bender in the book, 24 East 1st Street. A helpful librarian finds a map for her as well. Armed with directions, she boards the correct bus. East 1st Street is overshadowed by the mill. The smell is intense but after a few minutes she stops noticing it. She finds herself on a block of white clapboard homes, a solid, respectable working class neighborhood. She climbs the four steps to the porch of number 24 and hesitantly knocks. She can hear the TV. She knocks louder. A boy of 10 or 11 opens the door. He looks at her blankly. She hears someone inside yell, "Davey, who's at the door?"

Davey answers "I dunno, Ma."

"Is Bender home? I mean John. Is John home?"

Mrs. Bender comes to the door. A little girl of about 6 peeps around her skirt.

"Hello. Mrs. Bender? Is John home?"

"Johnny!" Mrs. Bender yells over her shoulder, then looks at Allison. "Come in, sweetheart. He'll be right down."

Allison enters the small living room, which is clean but littered with toys. The TV is playing cartoons loudly. She didn't expect this. She doesn't know what she expected but it wasn't this. Bender always seemed to have sprung into the world fully formed and the idea of small brothers and sisters never crossed her mind. Nor did she expect his mother to be so gracious.

He comes rattling down the stairs. When he looks up and sees her, his expression of surprise is comical.

"Al, what are you doing here?" He crosses the room and takes her by the elbow, steers her out onto the porch. "It's so loud I can't think in there."

She can see the mill, a huge presence, looming over them.

"What's wrong, Al?"

"My father found out about my show. He's going to punish me. He hit my mother. He can't do it." She starts crying. "He can't take away my art."

Bender leads her to the porch swing, sits next to her and takes one of her hands in his.

"Okay, start from the beginning. What happened?"

"I came home, I heard them arguing. Someone showed him the newspaper review of the show. He hit my mother, then he said he would punish me himself."

"Your old man's going to beat you?"

"I don't care if he hits me, he's going to take away my art. He can't. He can't! I can't live without it."

"Alright, Al. I understand. How's he going to take it?"

"Last time, he took away my sketchbooks and pencils, paints, everything. But I think he'll do more this time. I can't lose my sketchbooks. I can't lose my self portrait. I can't lose my new painting of the street under the El. Bender, can you hide them for me?"

Without hesitation he says, "Yes. How will you get them to me?"

"I can send a note to Jeannette at the college, and Stuart at the gallery, asking them to give the paintings to you. But my sketchbooks are all at home. I have to get them out."

"Where's your bedroom window?"

"Upstairs, in back."

"Good, can you throw them out the window to me?"

"Yes."

"I'll come at one tonight."

She knew it, she knew she could count on Bender. She hugs him. After a moment of surprise, he hugs her back.

He eventually says, "C'mon Al, you need to get home. You don't want more trouble than you already have."

* * *

It is almost six when she opens the front door. Her father's car is still in the drive way, and he is waiting in the living room. There are piles of sketch books, pencils, watercolor cases, boxes of pastels and charcoals, colored pencils on the coffee table. The piles are neatly sorted and stacked.

"Allison, come in here." She hears controlled rage. When she enters, he doesn't offer a seat, so she stands in front of him like a prisoner.

"You have disobeyed me. I forbade you peddling your paintings and you did it anyway." He lets this sink in."You have been given the privilege of messing around with this art foolishness, but you disobeyed me and that privilege is being revoked. No more art classes. No more art supplies. All of this is going in the trash. You won't be getting it back, as you did last time. You will not engage in any of this nonsense while you are under my roof. If I catch any doodling at all, you'll pay the price. No more drawing. You are grounded until school starts. Go to your room."

How can she rescue her sketchbooks? How can she get them to Bender?

* * *

Bender has solutions, he always does, but now she needs to create one herself. She has seven hours to think.

* * *

At one o'clock, she opens her window. When Bender comes around the side of the house, she waves from her dark window and he sees her. Now she can test her ingenuity. She lowers a flashlight on a string of curling ribbon, with paper and pen attached. Her note says

_The sketchbooks aren't here, he has them. _

_He said he'd throw them away._

_Check the garbage on the side of the house._

_Okay?_

He reads the note and gives her a thumbs up, disappearing around the side of the house. She listens for the slightest sound and hears nothing. Then he is back, shaking his head. She pulls up the flashlight, paper and pen and thinks.

_Give me your number, I'll call at eight tomorrow morning._

She lowers away, he jots his number, and she pulls it up. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough that she can see the glint of his eyes as he waves. Then he's gone.

* * *

She is up at six and hears her father stirring. He leaves at 7:30. In stockinged feet she tries the door to his office. Locked. She's known how to jimmy the lock with the ice pick since she was 10. She returns with the instrument, but finds her mother there. She holds up the key.

"I understand what this is doing to you. You were wrong to disobey him, but this is not right. I know cruelty when I see it. Take them and hide them."

She unlocks the door and retrieves the pile of sketch books from the interior of the credenza.

"Mother, thank you. You don't know..."

"I do know, I know it is your life. So does he. Hide them well. He may come looking for them."

Allison is unsure what to do next. They look at each other, then Allison grabs her hand, squeezes it and hurries to the phone.

This time, Bender finds them, hidden in plain sight in the garbage can. He retrieves them without a hitch. He sends up a note reporting success in getting the paintings to his house.

Then Allison begins the long wait until school starts, in two weeks.

* * *

She is surprised to find that without the ability to express herself visually she is so anxious she can barely catch her breath at times. She's not allowed out, not even to walk to the stream, so she listens to music and sleeps.

Her mother has decided to ignore Allison's eight am phone calls, so she speaks to Bender for a few minutes every day before he leaves for classes.

All things come to an end and eventually the first day of school arrives. Last year she was in agonies over the betrayal of the breakfast club members. Now that seems far away and childish. The first day all the students sit in the auditorium while their schedules are ironed out. Finally her name is called and she is handed a schedule, but it can't be hers because it has choir instead of art. She double checks it, then returns to the table.

"Vice Principle Vernon made a special note, you are not to have art classes." Seeing her distress, the teacher offers, "You can switch to cooking or shop if you don't like choir."

Allison shakes her head and retreats to the girl's bathroom. She doesn't care if people see her crying. She had been hanging onto the idea that school would improve her situation. No art class.

Two girls enter the bathroom, Claire and Tricia, Claire's new best friend of the week.

"Jesus, it's that freak crying again," Claire's companion exclaims with disgust. Claire has the decency to look ashamed. When Tricia enters a stall, Claire tentatively approaches Allison. Allison looks up out of the depths of her agony. Claire opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

"You can't help me, Claire. Go away." She says this with complete detachment.

Some time later the gym teacher, Miss Sanderson, comes in. Bells have been ringing. Allison doesn't know what time it is or what class she's supposed to go to. She doesn't care.

"Allison, honey, are you okay? Are you sick?"

"No." She feels no need to explain. They can do whatever they like with her. It doesn't matter anymore.

"Come on, Allison, let's go see Dr. Hashimoto." Miss Sanderson leads her by the hand through empty corridors.

All her previous defensive anger and desperate attempts at self protection are gone. She dully slumps in the chair provided. She is aware of Miss Sanderson and Dr. Hashimoto talking, then she is alone with Hashimoto.

"Allison, can you tell me what's wrong?"

She would construct elaborate lies for him in the past, and do her best to frustrate all his attempts to establish a rapport. Today she simply doesn't speak. He asks more questions but she sees no point in responding. Time passes and she is distantly aware of more people coming and going, Hashimoto on the phone, the word "catatonia." She is uninterested to find herself being gently guided to an ambulance by paramedics. She is finally left alone in a hospital room and she lays down and closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, she sees Bender.

"Al." He says her name with such compassion.

"Bender, they won't let me have my art." The distance is gone, she feels again, all the pain comes crashing down and she begins sobbing.

"Al, your mother wants to talk to you."

Her mother gives her a sketchbook, the one in which she'd drawn her sketch of the street under the El. "Allison, I'm sorry. I knew what he was doing to you and I let him do it anyway. It's over."

Bender sits next to her, puts his arm around her while she cries.

* * *

She stays a few more days in the hospital. It turns out she was gone, oblivious, unresponsive for three days. She remembers nothing of it. With her sketchbook returned to her, she draws deep abysses, dark mountains, thunderous skies and one very detailed human heart. At one point they ask her to draw a tree, a house and a person. She buries them all under a mudslide.

Bender visits her every day and she discovers how he ended up there in the first place.

"Your mother checked caller ID this summer, when you started calling me every morning. She thought I was your boyfriend. When the shit hit the fan, she called me."

Her mother visits also. Her parents are getting a divorce. She doesn't say so directly, but Allison understands being hit was the last straw in an unhappy marriage. When Allison leaves the hospital, she'll be living in an apartment with her mother. That sounds rather strange, but OK. Her mother has grudgingly accepted Bender. Allison suspects she only does so because she saw Bender bring her back when no one else could.

* * *

It is decided that Allison will pursue a GED while taking Jeanette's painting class. Bender has enrolled in the welding program. They eat lunch together in the cafeteria every day.

One day over lunch, Bender asks her about the Japanese combs she put in her hair the night of the opening.

"Yes, I still have them. Why?"

"Al, I think you should put your hair up Friday night and come with me to Patrice's new show. Then we can have dinner."

"Sure, that sounds like fun. But why the combs?"

"Because you look beautiful in them."

Allison gives him a sly smile.

"Yes, I'll go out on a date with you, Bender."


End file.
